


through the crowd

by kirkaut



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Coming Out, Dad Bob Zimmermann continues to be a catalyst for good, Fluff, M/M, Minor Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-01
Updated: 2016-09-01
Packaged: 2018-08-12 11:02:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7932163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kirkaut/pseuds/kirkaut
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The notification sound isn’t the one that he’s got assigned to Jack, which is why he doesn’t feel any panic when Holster hums an agreement and leans over to peer at Bitty’s phone screen.</p><p>At least, not until Holster says his name in the tone of a person with a slowly growing suspicion. “Bitty,” he says, very expectantly. “Who is ‘Good Robert’, and <i>why</i> is he blowing up your phone?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	through the crowd

**Author's Note:**

> Holster is, very briefly, kind of a butt in regards to Bitty's choice to date someone who isn't out. Bitty sets him straight (so to speak.)

 

 

Bitty is in the middle of cooking lemon pie filling on the stove when his phone lets out a loud chime and buzzes on the countertop. “Oh, Lord,” he huffs, whisking frantically to avoid burning the curd. “Holster, do you mind seeing who that is?” he asks when it chimes twice more. “I can’t stop stirring.”

The notification sound isn’t the one that he’s got assigned to Jack, which is why he doesn’t feel any panic when Holster hums an agreement and leans over to peer at Bitty’s phone screen.

At least, not until Holster says his name in the tone of a person with a slowly growing suspicion. “Bitty,” he says, very expectantly. “Who is ‘Good Robert’, and _why_ is he blowing up your phone?”

The whisk slips briefly out of Bitty’s grasp. Flecks of hot lemon curd go flying and speckle his forearm, making him hiss as it burns. It’s a good thing the filling is just about perfect because he immediately turns off the stove, moves the pot away from the heat, and goes to snatch his phone out of Holster’s hand.

Unfortunately for Bitty, Holster is about as determined as he is tall - that is to say, extremely - and holds the phone above his head where Bitty has absolutely no hope of retrieving it, short of climbing a stepladder.

“Eric Bittleford Bittle,” he says.

“That is _not_ my name - ”

Holster just continues talking in that drawling, scandalized tone. “Do you have a _gentleman caller_?”

Bitty flushes so suddenly and violently that Holster’s expression blooms into manic glee. “It’s not what you think,” he says quickly, making another attempt to jump and swipe his phone out of Holster’s disgustingly long reach. It’s a sad effort that fails immediately.

“You have a boyfriend!” Holster whisper-shouts triumphantly. “How could you not tell me? I tell you everything about my sex life!”

“I never asked for that,” Bitty asserts vehemently. He knows far, _far_ too much about the captain of the rowing team's penis, thanks to Holster.

He immediately begins the desperate process of trying to scrub out the mental images Holster has unknowingly inspired by accusing Bitty of sleeping with Jack’s father. “And I told you, it’s not what you think! He’s married.”

Holster’s eyebrows fly up his forehead.

“To a _woman!_ ” Bitty squawks. "Because he is _straight!"_

Holster visibly deflates, but hands Bitty his phone, pouting all the while. “Why’s he texting you so much, then?” His eyes light up with another, no doubt, ridiculous idea. “Is he your sugar daddy?”

Bitty hates this conversation so, so much. He wheezes and presses his hands into his face, the screen of his phone sticking to his cheek. “Gracious, Holster, no!”

Holster is, unfortunately, on a roll. “But you didn’t deny that you have a boyfriend,” he points out, tapping his fingers thoughtfully against his chin. “Maybe it’s not Good Robert, but you have one, don’t you?”

“Oh, my goodness,” Bitty groans. “I just want to make a pie.”

“You do!”

“Please drop it,” he begs, shoving his phone into his back pocket without looking at Bob’s texts. He turns away from Holster and picks up the saucepan full of curd. Using a rubber spatula, he scrapes its contents into a pre-baked pie crust and carefully spreads it all around until it’s evenly distributed. When he’s satisfied with the result, he sets it off to the side to cool. Conscious all the while of Holster’s looming over him, he pours his egg whites into a large mixing bowl and begins whipping them with a hand mixer, slowly adding sugar all the while.

Holster is disconcertingly silent the entire time, and the clatter of the metal whisks against the sides of the bowl seems overly loud as a result. Bitty wishes he could find the lack of prying a comfort, but all it seems to do is grate his nerves.

The interrogation stays paused until Bitty’s sculpted the meringue onto the curd, careful to make gentle waves that he knew would brown nicely in the over. He places the whole pie in the center of the oven rack and shuts the door. As he presses the buttons to set the timer, Holster clears his throat.

“Bits, this guy,” he starts. He sounds far more cautious now, and it makes Bitty finally turn to face him. “He’s not...you’re not afraid of talking about him with us, right? Like, he’s good to you?” Holster leans a hip into the counter and curls down towards Bitty, lips pulling downward into a frown. “He’s not, like, a dick to you or anything?”

“No!” Bitty blurts, aghast. He lays a hand on Holster’s forearm and squeezes. “Lord, honey, no, it’s nothing like that!”

“Then why haven’t you told us about him?” Holster asks him, picking up the whine once more.

Bitty sighs and drops his hand to the stovetop. He draws his fingertip through a glob of congealing lemon curd. “It’s not that I don’t want to,” he admits. Lord knows he’s yearned on more than one occasion to gush to Lardo or Holster about the unbearably sweet things Jack does for him. About the way Jack tries to make sure he's the first one to text Bitty in the morning and always sends him a sweet message goodnight. The way Jack will take pictures of things around Providence or whatever city he's playing in and send them to Bitty because he wants to share them, because he wishes Bitty were there in the moment as well.

How sometimes, Jack will text him things like, _‘I just thought about the way you look in the morning when I get to wake up next to you, and I can't stop smiling,’_ and Bitty will feel so full of love he's fit to burst.

“It's just...complicated,” he tries, but it only serves to make Holster look even more dissatisfied. Bitty sighs, and makes the split second decision to lay down the truth. “He isn't out, not yet. I promise you there are good reasons for it,” he's quick to assure when Holster’s expression blackens further, “and I don't...I don't want to do or say anything that might hurt him.”

“So what, you're just this guy's down low secret?” Holster says, incredulous. He leans forward and gently grabs Bitty's face in both of his massive hands. He jostles him lightly. “Fuck, Bits, don't you want more than that?”

Bitty can’t fight the scowl that pulls down his eyebrows, that lurches his mouth into a frown. “Adam Birkholtz,” he snaps, and yanks Holster’s hands from his face and shoves them away. “You have no right. What happens in my relationship is _my_ business! Lord knows it’s not ideal, but it’s still _mine_ and I’m happy, and that’s enough for me. And it’s darn well gonna be enough for you, mister, because you have no say in it!”

Holster shrinks back, looking smaller than Bitty has ever seen him. He mumbles an apology, his face pinched and genuinely contrite. The numbers on the oven's timer tick down, slowly, as the silence stretches between them.

"I really am sorry, Bitty," Holster apologizes again, reaching over to smudge a congealed blob of lemon curd off of the stove surface. "Just, like, I want you to be happy, bro. If you say this guy makes you happy, then that's great, you know? But I still want to shovel talk the shit out of him; make sure he's treating our boy right." He nudges gently at Bitty's arm with his elbow, large teeth peeking out from between his lips as he gives a tentative, hopeful smile.

Bitty sighs and leans into Holster, pressing into his side so that he can feel the way relief wilts his larger body at the small gesture of forgiveness. Holster curls an arm around Bitty's shoulders and holds him there, snuggling down as much as he can without risking a serious crick in his neck.

The impromptu cuddling is cut short when Bitty's phone buzzes in his back pocket, three times in quick succession, chiming insistently. He retrieves it and quickly glances at the screen only to find a series of new texts from Bob, another coming in as he stands there with the phone in his hand.

Holster lets out a low whistle. "You sure this guy isn't your sugar daddy?" he asks, unflatteringly dubious.

Bitty nearly drops his phone.

 

 

**ooo**

 

 

Jack laughs for five minutes straight when Bitty relays the conversation to him on Skype that evening, shoulders shaking as he hunches over his laptop, face buried in his hands.

"It's not funny!" Bitty insists, though his lips are trying their hardest to pull up into a smile. Several hours removed from the situation in question, it's easy to see the humor, but he wasn't expecting Jack to slip into a giggle fit so strong it made him _cry._

"No, no, you're right," Jack wheezes, lifting up his head. His eyes are suspiciously bright and his cheeks are mottled from the force of his laughter, his lips stretched into a toothy, wide grin that Bitty's only seen a handful of times. "This is - _tabernak_ , sorry - it isn't funny." He bites both of his lips between his teeth in a sad attempt to suppress his laughter, and when it doesn't work, he slips one of his large hands across his face and succumbs.

"Oh, Lord," Bitty huffs, but he's laughing through it. "I swear, it took me at least an hour to convince him it was just someone I knew asking me for baking advice, and not my _sugar daddy._ "

Jack sets off into a fresh peal of laughter, snorting a little bit into the crook of his elbow.

"We're talking about your father, you know," Bitty reminds him with an eye-roll. "I still don't understand why he's watching my baking vlog, anyway, or how in the world he managed to mangle those poor chocolate chip cookies so badly."

"Maman always did the baking," Jack tells him, still chuckling breathlessly and wiping at his eyes. "Papa was better at cooking, but barely. I'm pretty sure they're both watching your vlog, to be honest. Maman said something about a baking contest she only agreed to because she knew she would win, but I didn't think she meant against _my dad._ "

Bitty only gives a considering hum, because it makes perfect sense to him. Alicia and Bob were, as far as he could tell, inherently competitive people, and almost thirty years of adoring marriage had done nothing to tamp down the way they got when one challenged the other. Bitty had learned that the hard way during the impromptu gingerbread house competition that had occurred during his visit to Montreal over Christmas break. It had been Alicia and Bitty vs. Jack and Bob, featuring an unprecedented amount of sabotage and Bitty washing royal icing out of his hair for at least an hour after Bob had upended a bowl of it on their heads in an attempt to stave off their obvious victory.

"Why do you have my father in your phone as Good Robert, anyway?" Jack asks, once he's finally got himself completely under control.

"I'm not sure," Bitty admits. "Though it may have something to do with my little champagne rant on New Years about how it wasn't nice of people to call him Bad Bob when he's just so _kind_ to me. All I know is, when I got back to Samwell, he was there as Good Robert. There are also about seven hockey stick emojis and a top hat there, if that helps."

Jack's eyebrows scrunch together. "That depends. Did you put them there?"

"I did not."

"Then no," Jack says firmly, mouth twitching. "It doesn't help. I think it makes it all a little bit worse, actually."

Bitty laughs outright at that and draws his knees into his chest, watching Jack's gaze flicker over the expanse of bare leg before Bitty wraps his arms around his shins. He props his cheek on the bony jut of one knee and says, "I suppose Holster thinking your dad is some closeted, older, rich guy is better than his other theory," he concedes, closing his eyes.

"What's that?" Jack asks.

"Hmm?" Bitty hums absently, eyes opening into slits.

"Holster's other theory," Jack clarifies. He's looking at Bitty with that open, fond expression that was such a surprise the first time Bitty saw it; the first time Jack laid out all of his affections so plainly, easily seen by anyone who knew him well. "You said it's somehow worse than my dad hitting on you? I find that hard to believe."

"Oh," Bitty says, waving his hand dismissively. He props his chin up against one knee, lets the other one fall to the side until it's pressed against his bedspread. "Lord, I don't know, I think he was worried I was dating someone _mean_ , or something."

"Mean?" Jack repeats. He's frowning for real now, not the fake little pout he'd been putting on before.

Bitty shifts around on the bed. "Well, I _was_ being a touch shifty about the whole thing, honey," he begins. "I was trying not to let onto anything about you, and Holster has this wild idea about needing to...I don't know, check up on my boyfriend, make sure he's good enough? Something silly like that. It was sort of sweet, really; he was all worried I was being hurt."

Jack doesn't seem to find any of this comforting, if the way his brows are drawing together and the lines are his forehead grow deeper are any indication. "He thinks I'm hurting you?" he asks quietly, dropping his eyes.

"No!" Bitty rushes to assure him, climbing to his knees and scooting closer to the screen of his iPad where it's propped up on the end of his bed. "Sweetheart, no, I set him to rights, don't you worry about that. I told him all about how good you are to me, once he managed to pull his head out of his ass and stop making wild accusations. He does not think you're hurting me," he reiterates firmly. "He was a little concerned, maybe, but not anymore."

Jack is silent for a long stretch of time, but Bitty doesn't say anything to break the quiet. He sits there, still perched close to the screen, eyes searching over the slightly grainy image of Jack's face. "I wish," Jack starts, voice stilted and catching. He clears his throat, drops his eyes, and continues. "I wish he knew for sure I'd never hurt you." He lifts his eyes, his chin, eyes boring into the camera. "You know I never would, right? Not on purpose, not ever."

"I know," Bitty says gently, tracing his fingers on the curve of Jack's cheek, iPad tilting back slightly at the pressure. "Baby, you don't have to tell me, I know. You love me."

"I love you," Jack agrees. His voice is strange - steely and warm all at once, like he's trying to prove a point but unable to keep himself from softening with the words.

"I love you, too," Bitty tells him. He sighs, dropping himself down fully onto his stomach, elbows propping up his torso. "And Lord, I miss you, sweetheart. I know playoffs are just around the corner, but...are you sure you can't make it up for a quick trip before things get too crazy?"

"I can't promise anything," Jack says, regret visibly sloping his shoulders down. "There have been extra practices scheduled to get Marshy used to being in goal a full sixty minutes, in case Snowy isn't cleared in time." He sounds apologetic but also oddly thoughtful, which is a far cry better than the strictly unhappy tone he'd been using before.

"I understand," Bitty sighs, dropping down to lay fully on his stomach, tilting his cheek onto the back of his hand. "I just miss kissing you, is all. It's been so darn long."

Jack lets out a soft, puffing laugh, the one where he says, "Haha," all breathlessly and shakes his head. "It's only been two weeks, Bittle."

"Two _seconds_ is too long, if you ask me," Bitty grumps into the flesh of his forearm.

"I know," Jack agrees, sounding impossibly soft and fond. Then, after a moment: "I'll see what I can do," Jack says to him. "So, tell me more about what my dad did to those cookies."

"Gracious," Bitty groans, thumping his head against the mattress. "Where to even _start._ "

 

 

**ooo**

 

 

It's two days before the Falconers' first playoff game (at home, against the New Orleans Brass) and Bitty is happily ignoring the anxious butterflies in his stomach and the impending doom of final exams by baking up a _storm._

Shitty's in town for the weekend, insistent on being in the Haus for the first game, and he's sitting at the kitchen table with his arm slung around Lardo's shoulders. He's giving a passionate lecture on gender bias to a stunned looking Tango, who, bless his chatty little heart, hasn't been able to get a word in edgewise for nearly an hour, and looks like he's about to burst from all the words bottled up inside. Holster and Ransom are sprawled across one another on the Haus' travesty of a sofa, having dipped into the stash of edibles that Bitty had made to celebrate Shitty visiting for the weekend. Every now and then, one of their heads will pop up over the side of the couch to shout their input, but they have been _banished_ from the kitchen for the rest of the day as a result of their sticky fingers.

Whiskey is perched on a lawn chair in the living room, inscrutable gaze flickering between the mess of Holster and Ransom and the lecture coming from the kitchen, but he's been around long enough that Bitty can sense his amusement in the upwards tick of his eyebrow.

The rest of the team seems to be milling around in the backyard, an indistinct dull roar of noise just out of the peripheral of Bitty's concentric group of friends. Chowder, bless his little heart, is determinedly helping Bitty scoop even balls of cookie dough onto some baking trays while Bitty supervises over the mound of pie dough he's cutting butter into against the countertop.

His hands are covered in flour, encrusted with buttery specks, dirty all the way up to his elbows, when the doorbell rings.

A brief silence comes over the Haus as everyone glances at each other in confusion. "We have a doorbell?" Lardo asks, a little blearily. Shitty had offered her one of his cheesecake brownie edibles almost instantly, which accounts for the way she's slumped into him so hard.

"Whiskey, honey," Bitty says over his shoulder, glancing into the living room. "Would you mind getting the door?"

Whiskey gives him a firm nod and rises out of his chair, bemusedly slapping his palm against the hand Ransom offers him in a high five as he passes. Bitty leans back into the kitchen, starting to turn his attention back to the baking task at hand, when he hears Whiskey's normally controlled voice go, "Uh, holy _shit."_

"Hello," comes Jack's voice from the doorway. Chowder drops the cookie scoop, face lighting up comically. "Whiskey, right? I think we met once before." The door clicks shut.

Bitty all but shoves the shaggy, unfinished pie dough away from himself, scrubbing his hands desperately against the front of his apron in an attempt to get them some sort of clean. All at once, Shitty and Lardo lurch out of their chairs as Ransom and Holster execute a complicated looking manoeuvre that involves the both of them rolling up and off the back of the couch.

"Jack!" Shitty cries, throwing himself bodily at the man in question. "You beautiful motherfucker, you goddamn hockey prince, what the hell are you doing here?"

Jack laughs and catches Shitty easily, dodging his hands when Shitty tries to pull him into a headlock and give him a hard noogie. "I had some free time open up," he says, lifting his other arm when Lardo inserts herself against his side and hugs him tightly. "And I remembered you saying you would be here this weekend, so I thought it would be as good a time as any."

"Holy shit," Tango says under his breath from over Bitty's shoulder, always a little star struck whenever Jack manages a visit. Bitty makes a little noise of agreement, still stunned from the surprise, but a happy warmth quickly fills up the spaces inside of him that have been missing Jack keenly.

Jack's eyes catch on his and his gaze softens, smile transforming into the happy, quiet grin he seems to get when it's only the two of them. "Hey, Bits," he greets, still surrounded by Shitty and Lardo and Chowder, and Bitty gives a lame little wave with his floury hand.

"Move," Holster demands, picking Shitty up and forcibly pulling him away from Jack's side. "Move, move, move, I need to hug Jack and you're hogging all the fucking goods, Shits." He plasters himself against Jack as soon as Shitty, squawking in outrage all the while, has been removed, and Ransom glomps onto Holster's back almost immediately, arms circling them both.

"So fucking good to see you, bro," Holster says, nuzzling his cheek into Jack's hair and ignoring the way it knocks his glasses askew.

"It's good to see you, too," Jack says mildly, patting his back as best he can. "I actually need to talk to you, Holster. That's part of why I'm here."

Ransom and Holster draw back simultaneously, eerily in sync as they adopt scrutinising stances and give Jack a long once over. "What did I do?" Holster asks with heavy suspicion.

"Nothing," Jack shrugs, but the easy gesture is at war with the determined looking wrinkle between his eyebrows. Bitty loves that wrinkle, has kissed it on multiple occasions, which is why he recognises it immediately. "But I heard you wanted to check out Bitty's boyfriend, so I thought I would come and see how I measure up."

Silence descends for a handful of seconds, until Jack makes eye contact with Bitty, looking slightly nervous but so, so _sure,_ and he's completely unable to keep the wrecked sounding, "Oh, sweetheart," from leaving his lips.

There's a beat, and then everyone very visibly _gets it._

"Oh, fuck," Lardo says, glancing between the two of them with her eyebrows so high they're practically lost in her hair. "Now? Really?"

Shitty whoops loudly and crashes into Jack, pressing a loud and smacking kiss against the cut of his cheek. "You dramatic son of bitch," he cheers, clapping Jack hard on the shoulder. "I am so proud, I could cry." He gives a few loud sniffles for emphasis.

"Holy fuck, bro," Ransom says, both of his hands wrapped in a death grip around Holster's forearm. "Holy _shit,_ this is - are you guys for real?"

"Almost a year now," Jack confirms, eyes still firmly locked on Bitty's. He still looks scared, but he's smiling so wide, and Bitty is trembling all throughout his body, heart knocking violently against his ribs.

"Dude, if it makes you feel any better," Lardo says, when Holster and Ransom start sputtering indignantly about being kept in the dark, "they didn't tell me or Shits until almost fucking Christmas."

"It was the greatest present ever," Shitty announces to the room at large. "We went to visit Jack in Providence and they _sexiled_ us. It was amazing."

"Bits is kind of a screamer," Lardo agrees serenely. Behind her, Chowder's face collapses in horror and distress.

"Goodness, will you two just hush," Bitty hisses, face flaring up into a heavy blush. "No one needs to know that!"

"Uh, I disagree," Holster says, raising his hand. "I have been denied deets for way too long, Bitty, and now Jack is here to provide."

Jack chuckles as Bitty continues to internally implode, extricating himself from the grips of his former teammates and taking steps towards Bitty. "Hi," he says quietly, once they're separated by only a few inches. Bitty feels the space between them keenly, and the curious eyes of their friends even more so. "Is this...okay?"

"You're gonna have to tell me that, sweetheart," Bitty tells him, laughing gently. "You know I didn't mean to pressure you into this, right? I understood why we had to keep it quiet, honey. I suppose it's a bit too late to ask, but you're sure this is what you want?" He gestures to the room at large, the scrutiny of their friends.

"It was long overdue," Jack says after a few seconds of contemplation. "I don't want to hide from the people who matter. My parents know, your parents know. I just want _you,_ Bits, as much as I possibly can." His large hands settle on Bitty's hips, fingers playing with the drawstring of the apron. His grip is warm, familiar, and Bitty loves this boy so much.

He tells him so, floury hands slipping up Jack's blue Falconers shirt, twining together behind his neck. "I love you."

"I love you, too," Jack murmurs, and leans down for a soft kiss.

A loud, jarring clap startles them apart. Shitty has moved closer, staring at them with a teary look of aggressive affection, slow clapping at them until the others join in. Bitty laughs, forehead knocking into Jack's chest, and braces himself for the inevitable group hug when the first body hits him from the side.

Whiskey even joins in, a careful hand curled over Bitty's shoulder, squeezing in support. Holster and Ransom are plastered up against his back, poor Tango crushed between them, Shitty's climbing Jack, and Lardo and Chowder are doing their best to insert themselves into the center of the pile. The lot of them stand there in a claustrophobic tangle of limbs, Shitty chattering happily in the direction of them all.

"Oh, hey," Holster says suddenly, pulling back just enough that Bitty knows he's directing the question at Jack. "Dude, do you know who Good Robert is? Because he blows up Bitty's phone, like, all the time. Might need to ensure no one is trying to put the moves on Bits, you know? Just looking out."

Jack lets out a laugh as Bitty snaps Holster's full name. "While I know he likes him well enough, I don't think Bits is really my father's type."

There's a beat, broken only by Lardo's snickering, before Holster yelps, "Good Robert is _your dad?!_ Holy shit. Holy _shit_ , Bad Bob, Good Robert, what the fuck, Bitty! Why didn't you stop me?!"

Bitty, surrounded by his friends who love him, curled up against the man of his dreams, and happier than he ever thought possible, just buries his face into Jack's shirt and laughs.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> this kind of spawned out of my desire to see: a) bad bob as the one who is really into bitty's baking vlog, b) for someone to have bad bob in their phone as good Robert, and c) an undramatic, sort of fluffy story about the rest of the Haus finding out
> 
> also bitty 100% makes gourmet edibles for Shitty/Lardo/the Haus from time to time and I will not be convinced otherwise


End file.
